


when you gonna love you as much as I do?

by SapphoIsBurning



Category: Professional Wrestling, World Wrestling Entertainment
Genre: Bathing/Washing, Crying, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, M/M, POV Second Person, Self Confidence Issues, Stream of Consciousness, post-backlash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-12
Updated: 2016-09-12
Packaged: 2018-08-14 15:04:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,649
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8018662
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SapphoIsBurning/pseuds/SapphoIsBurning
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is how it is when you lose big: you have to hold it together until you're alone enough to let it all go.</p><p>(Dean keeps it together until Sami can step in after his loss at Backlash.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	when you gonna love you as much as I do?

**Author's Note:**

> Content notes at end.

This is how it is when you lose big. You're a fucking grown up as long as the cameras are rolling, right? I mean cradle your balls if you have to (your fucking "Jesus seam" if you're a goddamn Baptist who can't say balls in front of a girl, like they've somehow never heard of them before) but you grit your teeth and curse and be the loser. Then they turn the cameras off and you still don't cry because every single person you work with every day is there and you tough it out and make it to the locker room and get your shit. At least when you wrestle in jeans you can just throw a hoodie on and not look like a fucking freak wandering to the parking structure or into a hotel.

Some people have texted you. Big surprise there. Only one you care about, and he says he's sorry but he's still waiting and that's that.

So you put a hoodie on and a ball cap and you pull it over your face and you get your wallet and the keys to your rental and you thank fuck that you didn't share it with anyone so nobody tries that hard to talk to you. You roll your eyes and thank your lucky stars you hugged it out with Becks earlier. She can go party, she fucking deserves it. She's been doing this a long damn time too. But you're not raining on her parade with your goddamn long face so you get in the car and try to look anonymous so no fans try to stop you and talk to you because if after all this they still want to talk to you, you don't want to see them when you're like this.

And then you drive, and it's not that bad all things considered but then like a Tori Amos song comes on the radio, it's fucking Winter, and then you feel that burn in your chest, like in your solar plexus, like someone hit you there five seconds ago even though you're the only one in the car and you slap the button to turn the music off. And you take some deep breaths and wipe your eyes with your sleeve and then turn the radio back on cause it is a really good song, like Mick ain't wrong about that, even though it makes you wanna cry even when you're feeling good. Damn it all. Still don't cry. You can't cry and drive. That shit's dangerous.

You get off the freeway after a couple hours. You find the hotel. You park and get out and grab your shit out the back, and you freak out for just a second that you forgot the title (in its stupid little case with the stupid little buckles) back at the arena and then...oh. Well, there's one thing you don't have to worry about anymore. And you take a deep shuddering breath and squeeze your eyes shut and sniffle once, hard, not actually crying now, not in a fucking Radisson parking lot, and you go into the hotel. You don't need to check in. Someone already checked in.

Like, Sami's in the room, and you get off the elevator and drag your shit to the room number he gave you and you don't even have to knock, he hears you coming because he knows what your walk sounds like while dragging a suitcase and he's standing there in the open door and you see him and your face crumples and he holds the door open while you drag your bag and yourself through the door. As soon as it snaps shut behind you, you let go of the suitcase handle, and as it slams to the floor you lose it and NOW you can cry and you suck in a lungful of air and wail, cursing, pounding a fist against your thigh, nearly knocking your own bad knee out from under you, and Sami shushes you and pulls you into his arms because he's like that.

It's hard to even call what you're doing crying, it's like you're trying to throw up your lungs through your eyes, but Sami doesn't care. You've seen him cry this hard. He hangs on tight. You ruin his tee shirt. It happens, behind closed doors, after anyone who'll judge a man for it is gone and doing whatever righteous fucking assholes do when they're feeling smug. Something involving milk. What is it with milk? You are hyperventilating but the thought of AJ Styles getting milk dumped over him makes you laugh and interrupts the fucking jagged stream of despair pouring out of you right now.

Sami gently pulls back to look at you and figure out if you've finally lost it and gone full-on supervillain or just cheered up for a sec. He furrows his eyebrows without saying his question.

"Milk," you manage to choke out.

"Sure," he says kindly, brushing your hair out of your face. "Also, let me say, fuck that guy. Fuck him in his ear. Fuck all of them."

You nod and hiccup, you body not sure how to stop whatever it was doing.

"Did you even shower?" Sami asks, unzipping your hoodie and peeling it off of you, seeing you're definitely still in your ring gear, drenched with sweat and now cold and clammy. Are you cold? Is that a thing you can be? Who even knows at this point. "Nope, definitely didn't shower. Okay sluggo, into the bathroom." Sami turns you around and gives you a push.

You follow stupidly like this is normal, like most people fight other people and lose and cry about it in hotel rooms on their Sunday nights, staying up late to be bathed by Canadians. Sure. Normal. But Sami looks at you expectantly and so you strip, handing him the dirty clothes and the kneepads you forgot to take off and the boots and the Reds hat and all of it. He disappears out of the bathroom and then comes back without his clothes on either and sighs at you, but it's a fond kind of sigh like man it's nice to be disasters together with someone, at least that's what you think the sigh means.

He starts the shower, tests it, pulls the curtain back for you and you get in. He follows with unwrapped road soap and a washcloth and like all the shampoo bottles and shit held between his fingers to set down on the little crappy shelf in the tub.

You cry a little more at that, someone taking care of you like this when you're not worth anything and it's like he knows what you're starting to think because he puts the bottles down and hugs your head hard while the spray rains over you. "I love you, Dean, I love you so much, no matter what happens. You're worth it. You're worth so much, you're gold to me."

"Thanks, Ponyboy," you sniffle like an ASSHOLE, like who makes that joke right now, but Sami laughs so clearly he's an asshole too, right? He grabs the washcloth and soaps it up. He washes your back and your chest and all over, you face and even your hands. God, it's good. You trade place with him so you can rinse off. The hot water feels good and you can't even tell if your face is wet because you're a crying loser or just a showering loser, so that's nice. He washes your hair without saying anything more at all.

Seems like you've been in the shower with your naked boyfriend for a long goddamn time, like you're snapping out of a daze, and man. He's so close. You bite your lip looking at him like, damn, all this for me, and he laughs because he's looking at you the same way. You put your arms around him, leaning your face against his wet slippery chest. It's gonna be okay, right? It's gonna be something.

You stay in the shower a little longer maybe not washing anything at all and man, that helps blow off some steam. Beats crying and masturbating alone any day. Beats the hell out of it.

You get out and splash water fucking everywhere, but who the fuck cares. Sami dries you off, even though you're a little less of a disaster than when you walked in the door, but it's nice to be taken care of, every limb, every inch of skin, by someone who cares about all the parts as well as the whole.

Sami dug your pajamas out of your suitcase earlier while you were standing naked in the bathroom like a dumbass, and thank god for that because you barely have the strength to put them on before you fall down face-first across the bed.

"Dean. You're...you're kind of cutting the ring in half there. Dean. Roll over." He nudges you. You grunt and rotate ninety degrees so now you're face-first down on top of a pillow. He curls up next to you and rubs small circles on your back until you fall asleep.

Losing big. It happens all at once, the avalanche of loss hitting you. Winning takes more time. You may be the only one that sees it, for the right kind of win.

In the morning, Sami kisses you awake. "I got room service," he says. There are trays.

"Why is there milk?" you say.

"I thought you wanted...you said..." Sami says. "You were talking about milk last night."

You frown. "I guess I was." You fucking drink your milk. He's a good boyfriend. He listens. He likes you. He makes you feel good enough. Maybe you are good enough. Your legs brush under the covers and it feels good. He feeds you a piece of bacon. It's a start.

**Author's Note:**

> This is dedicated to my computer that tried to kill me by playing sad Tori Amos instead of upbeat punk while I was trying to write this. I did not turn on shuffle with my own hand.
> 
> Also dedicated to all the other Deano die-hards. I love you guys.
> 
> They both express some earned bad feelings about AJ in this but I'm not trying to AJ-bash.


End file.
